final voyage on the khafila of life.
'I am dead, Mr Holmes,' I said simply. But it was not going to be as simple as that, for I heard Moriarty's strident objections to my speedy demise.
'No, no, my fat friend. Not so fast. You will burn for a long time before you perish altogether. Coals of fire. Eh! Coals of fire. Ha. Ha. Ha.'
Even in my final moments I was to be denied any peace or solace. Moriarty's maniacal laughter rent the air, and echoing off every point on the great dome of ice, filled the place with its horrid, exaggerated mimicry.
'Who shall it be now?' Moriarty cackled hideously. 'No. Not you Holmes. You will see this thing through to the end. It is necessary that you observe the suffering you have caused your friends by your impertinent meddling in my affairs. But where shall we start? Let us think. Shall we now see the Grand Lama onto his journey to the heavenly fields, as they so charmingly put it in this country?'
'Mr Holmes!' cried the Lama Yonten in despair. 'You must save His Holiness.'
'Old Fool!' laughed Moriarty. 'What can you expect this Englishman to do against my power – and the power of the Stone?'
'Listen to me!' the Lama Yonten shouted desperately to Sherlock Holmes. 'You are not really English. You are one of us. You have the power too.'
'What do you mean, monkey?' cried Moriarty, but the Lama Yonten's whole attention was focused on Sherlock Holmes, whom he was frantically shaking by the lapel of his Ladakhi robe. For the first and only time I saw Mr Holmes looking dazed. His mouth hung open and his eyes were glazed over. But the Lama Yonten desperately persisted in his attempt to persuade Sherlock Holmes of his rather lunatic conviction.
'Mr Holmes Mr Holmes. Listen to me. You are not Sherlock Holmes! You are the renowned Gangsar trulku, former abbot of the White Garuda Monastery, one of the greatest adepts of the occult sciences. The Dark One slew you eighteen years ago,'but just before your life-force left your body we were able to transfer it – by the yoga of Phowa? [42] – to another body far away.'
'I cannot remember… cannot remember…' Mr Holmes mumbled and staggered back a few steps as if intoxicated.
'You cannot remember because you were unconscious and on the point of death when the Pho- wa operation was performed and the Aperture of Bhrama [43] opened to release the sacred bird. That is why we could not direct the principle of consciousness after its release and had to trust in the power of the Three Jewels to guide it to a habitable body. [44] It was the best we could do at the time.'
It may have been my proximity to death or the great pain I was suffering as I lay prostrate on that cold cavern floor that allowed me to hear this strange tale without feeling any real surprise or incredulity. In fact, in a semi- conscious, dreamy way, I found myself even beginning to agree with it. Mr Holmes a former lama? Why ever not? He was celibate, of noble mien and great wisdom. In accordance with the Mahayanic precepts of altruism and compassion he had devoted his life to aiding the weak, the poor and the helpless against the powers of evil. He fasted regularly to clear the vital channels and bring about clarity of insight; and he had powers of concentration that would make many a practising yogi look like a rank novice. Never was an incarnate lama truer, or more deserving of his monastic robe and cap of office, than my dear friend.
Fresh spasms of burning pain racked my body, and for some moments I lost consciousness. When I recovered I was greeted with the offensive sound of Moriarty's chuckling.
'So, Gangsar, my pious, do-good classmate. You survived after all. Strange are the ways of karma, are they not? My two greatest enemies are actually the same person. Which is very convenient, when you think about it. One does not necessarily have to go to the blood-thirsty extent of the Emperor Caligula, when he wished that all Rome had just one neck, to appreciate the need for economy of action in these things. But we must see to the Grand Lama first. You will have to wait for your turn Holmes, or Gangsar, whatever you may wish to be called.'
'Holmes will do for the present,' said my friend in a clear strong voice, standing tall and erect, his arms akimbo, 'and you will not harm the boy.'
Though at death's door, I nearly cheered at this revival of Sherlock Holmes's strength. Indeed, his sharp eyes flashed like gemstones and all the outstanding aspects of his physiognomy: his fierce hawk-like nose, his determined chin, and his noble brow, seemed even more prominent and revealing of the greatness of the man. It was as if he had undergone transfiguration.
'Hah! Do I detect a note of defiance? Foolish. Foolish,' jeered Moriarty, shaking his long forefinger as if admonishing a child. 'Do you think that just because you have recovered your memory and some of your old occult powers, you can stand up to me? Have you forgotten the Great Stone of Power? Not even the combined strength of the College of the Occult Sciences, and all the Grand Masters, living and dead, could withstand its immense power. So how do you think you can stop me? It is beyond your capability to resist even an iota of its energy. Try!'
A ripple of movement flowed out of his eyes and, striking the stone, emerged as a kind of invisible wave of destructive energy that shot out towards Holmes and the two Lamas. Sherlock Holmes raised his hands and – as if he had been doing it all his life (which, in a manner of speaking, he probably had) – moved his fingers in a strange manner to form tantric gestures (Skt. mudra). Immediately, a barely visible barrier, a kind of curtain of shimmering energy, seemed to form before them. The force wave smashed into the psychic shield with the noise of a thunderclap. Holmes and the two Lamas were thrown to the ground; but they gradually rose to their feet, and it was apparent that, though shaken, they were happily unharmed.
'Good, Holmes, good,' crowed Moriarty, 'but not quite good enough, if you will forgive me the remark. You have obviously not applied yourself with sufficient diligence to the teachings of our old Master. The little finger should have unfolded like the petals of the Utpala [45] flower after the first rain, not hung hesitantly like a eunuch's lingam. So shall we try again?'
Again and again Moriarty attacked with the awesome power of the Stone, and again and again Sherlock Holmes threw up his psychic shield to protect the lamas and himself from annihilation. But it was tragically obvious that Moriarty was toying with Holmes and was – as he himself had earlier declared – using only a fraction of his power. Standing tall and erect, shining with vitality, he casually directed the murderous waves of energy at a rapidly weakening Sherlock Holmes.
Tears filled my eyes at the realisation that my noble friend was doomed, and with him the Grand Lama and the Lama Yonten; and then, of course, Thibet, that fascinating country to whose study I had devoted these many years of my life. Was it all to end in this manner? With myself lying useless and dying on the floor of this cold cavern, while Moriarty strutted about, brave as a cock on his own dung-hill, crowing his cock-a-doodle-doo of victory. It was hateful – intolerable. But what could I do? I could not even move. Or could I?'
Gritting my teeth I tried. I discovered that my entire body was useless and had no feelings nor functions, except for the right arm, which had retained some of its vitality – at least for the moment. Clawing the icy floor with my right hand I managed to slowly and painfully drag myself forward.
Moriarty had his back to me and was slowly advancing on Mr Holmes and the two Lamas, who were being flung further backwards in disarray after every shattering blow of the Power Stone. Oh, for my revolver! A weapon – anything. I looked about the cavern floor but could see nothing. Only my trusty old umbrella lay on the ice a littie away from me, where it must have fallen after I had been struck by the fire-ball. Moriarty now paused for a moment in his advance to make some more sneering, facetious remarks, that he obviously regarded as hilariously funny.
'Have you now had enough finger exercises, Holmes? I should really hope so, for I intend to make our next lesson a more difficult one. Now what shall it be? Ah! I have it. You'll love this one Holmes. In fact it'll warm the cockles of your heart. Ha. Ha. Ha.' As the cavern dome echoed once again with his laughter, a jet of multi-coloured fire shot forth from the Stone. 'Hell-fire, Holmes! Hell-fire! Ha. Ha.'
Only just in time Sherlock Holmes managed to make some occult gestures and raised his psychic shield before the flames struck – and engulfed it. For a moment I thought with despair that they had been consumed by the blaze. But then, through the raging flames, I was able to see that Mr Holmes and the lamas were safely ensconced within a dome of energy, and safe – at least for the present – while all round them raged this magical conflagration.
Gritting my teeth I managed to drag myself to where my umbrella lay – and secured it. What I was going to do with it I did not know, but I grimly dragged myself towards Moriarty. On reflection, I can really provide no explanation how my shattered, near lifeless body managed not to just give up and expire altogether, much less move forward in this fashion. It may have been the overriding hatred I felt for this evil, sneering blackguard, or even
